Hate
by Aaya123Woods
Summary: Carl was disgusted by his father. He didn't know when it started, and more importantly, he didn't know if he and his father were all that different. Rated T because you shouldn't hate your dad, and kids, unless there is a zombie apocalypse, don't.
1. Chapter 1

Carl couldn't quite pinpoint when he had begun to hate his father.

He thought, maybe, it had started when he was still a kid, right after the farm. With his dad screaming at the scattered remains of the group. But at the end of their time at the prison, that was when Carl knew. Talking? When had the Governor ever responded to talking? And with Michonne's and Hershel's lives hanging in the balance, talking was the stupidest, most idealistic idea Carl had ever heard.

This wasn't a world for idealistic people anymore.

* * *

Carl walked along the road, his dad stumbling after him. Carl strode ahead, feeling tall and confident. He didn't want to look at the pathetic, broken man behind him.

He had lost Judith. His weak father had lost Judith.

With no change of expression, a lone tear dripped down Carl's thin face.

* * *

"Stay back." Carl wanted to scream at him. Stay back? Carl was a hell of a lot stronger than his dad, would probably clear anyplace faster and easier. Carl couldn't believe his dad was still trying to protect him. Compensation, maybe? For losing everyone else? Incapable, incompetent old man. But he didn't say any of that.

* * *

"Wake up!" he screamed. "Wake up!" Carl shook him desperately, not sure of what he was afraid of. He began to cry.

Carl didn't check his pulse. He didn't want to feel how weak it was. As long as the raspy breathing was still there, he could last one more day. Carl didn't realize he was yelling at his father until he stood up.

"I'd be fine if you died," spat Carl contemptuously. He left, to lead the walkers away. He didn't know why. Maybe just to hold on to the strong, honorable leader that used to reside in the man he now held in complete disdain.

He led away the walkers, mind wandering. To his mom. Judith. Michonne. He realized he didn't much care about the fact that he was a killer. The young man that Carl had shot? He had read in books that if you killed someone, they would stay with you forever. They would haunt your nightmares. But Carl didn't give two shits about the boy he had killed. He wondered if that meant that he was as bad as the Governor. Or as his father.

* * *

**I recently discovered the Walking Dead. Watched all four seasons in less than two weeks. I believe that officially qualifies me as an addict. So, do tell if you guys want a second chapter, where Carl realizes that his daddy is really just a big bundle of rainbows and flowers and sparkles. Definitely look forward to more Walking Dead fanfics, I hearts the show.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Set during "A."**

* * *

Carl awoke to the smell of beans.

His dad and Michonne were heating a can of beans over a small campfire. Carl felt his stomach groan and twist painfully.

"How hungry are you, on a scale of one to ten?" asked his father. Carl didn't laugh or even smile- he thought his face had probably forgotten how.

"Fifteen," he answered, checking his gun like he did every morning. Six bullets.

"Twenty-eight," Michonne said. There was a smile in her voice. Safety on.

"Well, it's been awhile," said his dad. Clean enough for now. "I'm going to check the snares."

Carl looked up at him. "Can I go with you?"

"How else are you going to learn?" asked his dad, the corner of his mouth twitching. "You, too," he said to Michonne.

They walked for a few minutes.

"We're close now, right?" Carl asked.

"To Terminus?" his dad said.

_No, Niagara Falls,_ Carl thought, irritated. But he just said, "Yeah."

"We are."

They walked in silence for a moment. Then Carl voiced what had been bothering him.

"When we get there, are we going to tell them?"

"Tell them what?" asked Michonne.

"Everything that's happened to us. All the stuff we've done," said Carl, staring down at his dirty fingernails.

"We're going to tell them who we are," his father said decisively.

Carl wanted to tell him to shove his confident attitude straight up his ass. Carl could see right through it, to his scared, weak interior.

"But how do you say that?" asked Carl. "I mean, who are we?"

Nobody answered him.

* * *

When they got to the snares, his dad knelt by it and taught Carl how to make a basic trap. They had gotten a scrawny rabbit, which wasn't much, but it was better than expired beans. They would be eating well tonight. Carl looked at his dad, explaining the trap, and thought that maybe while Carl had been scorning him, he had been pulling himself together.

Just then, a scream shattered the peaceful air. In a second, Carl was running to the cry. He pulled out his gun, turning off the safety. He heard his dad yelling at him to stop, but he ignored it.

_You want to kill someone else?_ he thought spitefully.

Carl skidded to a halt at the treeline. A man with glasses was surrounded by walkers. Carl cocked and aimed the gun at a walker, fully aware of how many precious dwindling bullets they had. Before he could fire, he felt his dad's arm wrap around him.

"We can't help him," his father hissed. A walker tore into the man's face. Carl's cheek tingled, as if he were the one being eaten alive. His dad released him, and Carl lowered his gun, staring at another of his father's casualties.

* * *

Carl was in the Jeep they had found.

He watched Michonne and his dad talk outside.

Not for the first time, the thought crossed his mind that he and Michonne could just leave. He knew his dad couldn't be trusted with people to protect. But Carl knew Michonne would never go for it. And he supposed that even though he wasn't particularly fond of his father, he didn't want to leave him to the walkers.

Carl drifted into sleep, secure in the knowledge that Michonne was watching over them.

* * *

Someone knocked on the window.

Carl opened his eyes, expecting Michonne or his dad, telling him it was time to go. Instead, there was a large man there with a knife.

In a second, Carl had scanned the scene and found that his group had no advantages. Both his dad and Michonne were at gunpoint, he was at knifepoint, and no one had a weapon. His gun had been thrown in the backseat. He was already berating himself for this stupid decision.

The one pointing a gun at his dad spoke.

"Shit, and I was thinking of turning in for the night on New Year's Eve!" The man laughed. "Now, who's going to count down the ball dropper with me, huh? Ten Mississippi, nine Mississippi..."

Carl turned his attention back to the man outside the Jeep. He grinned and tapped on the window again. Something in the large man's gaze was off... cracked. Carl inched away nervously.

"Eight Mississippi!" chuckled the man.

"Joe!" a familiar voice called. Daryl strode into the firelight. Carl sighed in relief. Thank whatever still resembled God that Daryl was alive, there, going to save them.

"Hold up," Daryl said, taking in the sight.

"You're stopping me on eight, Daryl," said the man warningly. Carl assumed it was Joe.

"Just hold up," said Daryl, obviously trying to come up with a plan.

"This is the guy that killed Lou. We got nothing to talk about," said one man with a machine gun angrily.

"Thing about nowadays is, we got nothing but time. Say your piece, Daryl," said Joe.

"These people, you're going to let 'em go," Daryl said boldly. "These are good people."

Joe's smile faltered, replaced by something more threatening.

_If you bastards kill any of us, I swear I'll kill every last one of you,_ thought Carl furiously.

"Now, I think Lou might disagree with you on that. Of course, I'll have to speak for him, because your _friend_ here, he strangled him in a bathroom," said Joe.

"You want blood. I get it," Daryl said. He dropped his crossbow, holding up his hands. "Take it from me, man. Come on."

Joe stared Daryl with disgust in his gaze. "This man killed our friend," he said slowly. "You say he's good people. See, now, that right there is a lie. It's a _lie!"_ Carl saw someone come up behind Daryl and hit him in the head with something.

"Dammit, Daryl," whispered Carl as he watched Daryl go down, men beating him.

"NO!" shouted his father. Carl felt a surge of anger rise in him. _See, Dad? This is what happens when you're in charge. Everything goes to shit in about a minute, _thought Carl viciously.

"Teach him, fellas! Teach him all the way!" yelled Joe. Just then, the man outside Carl's door yanked it open.

"C'mere, boy," said the man, wrenching Carl out of the car. Carl tried to kick him, but he turned him around, holding the knife to his throat. His father stood up, face twisted.

"You leave him be," he snarled. The large man lowered his head by Carl's ear and began whispering. Carl felt his heart chill and fear swell in him as the man described the filthy things in his mind. He strained to ignore it, but the horrible fantasies of the man invaded his mind, curling around it with cold, incapacitating tendrils.

_Oh God he's going to do that to me while they watch, oh God oh God oh no please,_ Carl thought, his brain panicking, seizing up. All he could hear was the man behind him, all he could feel was the heavy, sweaty weight of him and something poking into his back, and he knew what it was, because the man was telling him, _oh please, dear God, SAVE ME!_ Carl thought, but he was paralyzed with fear and now the man was shoving him to the ground and Carl cried out because now he was an animal, driven only by a pure, mindless need to get away, get away from the man who was straddling him, and Carl punched out blindly and the man pinned down his arms and his one defense was gone, and Carl was crying in terror and horror, letting out noises and words, all mixed up, and then the man flipped him over, holding his face against the ground so he couldn't move and Carl couldn't see or hear or do anything but cry and scream and feel as the monster on top of him pulled down his pants and the terror was like a steel clamp, pressing down on his brain so he couldn't think and he opened his eyes, clawing for a chance a miracle a death anything to stop the hand on his hip, pulling down his underpants, and he saw his father lunge at the man named Joe and sink his teeth into his throat and then he pulled outward, and blood spurted everywhere and his dad gave him the chance the miracle the death. The man got off of him. In a moment, it seemed Joe's men were all dead. Carl pulled up his underwear and pants, tears still pouring down his cheeks. He tried to scramble away, but it seemed the nightmare hadn't ended yet. His attacker grabbed him up again, holding the knife to his throat.

Carl gasped and cried, helpless.

"I'll kill him!" the man said desperately. "I'll kill him!"

"Let the boy go," Michonne said, death in her eye as she pointed her gun at the man.

Carl's father straightened from Joe's body, knife in his hand, and it was then that Carl realized that he had bitten out Joe's throat.

Like a walker.

His dad advanced, his face covered in blood, on the man.

"He's mine," said his father coldly.

The man pushed Carl away. He ran to Michonne, his tears drying up.

"Stay back," the man said, voice trembling. Michonne held him tight. Carl watched as his father killed the man, almost cutting him into pieces. He felt no pity.

There was, Carl supposed, a reason why the walkers ruled the world.

* * *

**WHEW! That was really hard, I really don't know how to write a rape scene. Anyway, tell me if you chickadees think it's good. Now, my writing muscle is tired, plus it's four in the morning, so g'night to y'all (see how I went all southern? Yeah, I'm a New Yorker, I have never been to Georgia, so I have no idea how these southern people do shit. I'm guessing writing southern is not as hard as writing English, which I totally suck at. I should shut up now), and just keep calm 'til October! And, if any of you couch potato TV watching knuckleheads even read anymore, The Walking Dead is motherfucking cocksucking MAGNIFICENT. At least half of you must get the reference. I'll give you a hint: Negan.**


End file.
